Once Upon a Masquerade

by Tamara Hughes

  “Surely there must be one that stands out. Have you purchased gowns from Worth?” Westerly persisted. “I understand he’s very popular. I’ve heard he shows his collection by gaslight, his mannequins dressed entirely in black, and chooses the particular gowns and colors he feels his patrons should wear instead of asking what they’d prefer.”

  Christopher waited for Miss Bailey to correct him, as the Black ships routinely delivered Worth orders to the States from overseas, not Boston.

  Miss Bailey dabbed her napkin on her lips. “Yes, of course. He’s always been one of my favorites.”

  “No, wait a moment. Worth isn’t a Boston designer is he?” Westerly corrected himself.

  “Paris I believe,” Kimberly provided, gazing curiously at Miss Bailey.

  Miss Bailey exhaled a tremulous breath. “I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. How silly of me.”

  Poor girl was painfully flustered, and yet, after a shake of his head, Westerly continued to enlighten his avid audience. “In Boston, most of society winters in Brookline and summers in Newport or Mount Desert Island, two places with very different cultures. Miss Bailey, where does your family summer?” he asked, showing more interest in Miss Bailey than he had all evening.

  She raised her water glass to her lips with a quivering hand, before answering, “We’ve always preferred Mount Desert Island. It’s truly a wonderful place.”

  Christopher refilled her water and puzzled over her obvious discomfort, sorely tempted to soothe her in some way.

  “Interesting.” Westerly turned his focus back on Kimberly. “Over the past several years, Newport has become an attractive location for the more fashionable set. Even Mrs. Astor has a cottage there. I find those who visit the island are largely Brahmins who believe themselves to be exceedingly tolerant and traditional. They speak more simply and dress unassumingly. It’s said that it’s commonplace on the island to allow couples to socialize unchaperoned.”

  “Oh my,” Kimberly sighed.

  Miss Bailey flushed. Setting down her glass, she caught the edge of the fork resting on her plate. The silver piece flipped through the air to the floor.

  Christopher reached down to retrieve the acrobatic utensil with a silent curse. The boorish ass could have held his tongue on the matter of chaperones.

  As Westerly expounded on the superiority of summering in Newport, Christopher slipped the wayward fork back onto the table. “Nice trick,” he teased. “Enjoying your meal?” He hoped at least the food was to her liking.

  Miss Bailey greeted him with an angry glare. She likely thought he needled her about Westerly’s tendency to be a prick. The situation baffled and infuriated him. “Why are you so interested in Westerly?” he whispered, confident their dining companions were too consumed by their own discussion to overhear. “He’s ignored and insulted you, spending all of his energies fawning on Kimberly.”

  Miss Bailey glanced across the table to the couple chatting contentedly. “I don’t believe this is the appropriate time or place for this discussion. Besides, I’d think you should be more concerned about Mr. Westerly’s attentions to Miss Ives than I.”

  “Why would that be? Kimberly is an intelligent woman.” He enjoyed the way the green of her eyes glowed when she was piqued.

  “Your relationship with her is very interesting, Mr. Black,” she pointed out in a clipped tone.

  So she did believe he was Kimberly’s fiancé. He smiled and sat back in his chair. “You’re jealous.”

  She sucked in her breath. “I most certainly am not.”

  He leaned forward. Time to end this game. “She’s my cousin. She and her mother are staying with my parents until her wedding day.”

  “Oh, I assumed…” A delicate pink crept up her neck. With the arrival of the Lobstera la Newburg, Miss Bailey became engrossed with the meal, immediately sampling the dish.

  He studied her with an amused grin. Evidently, her ravenous appetite was a tactic to avoid being drawn into unpleasant conversation.

  When she caught sight of him watching, she stopped eating, her fork held high over her plate. “Am I entertaining you?”

  She did indeed entertain him, and her stern look, meant to take him to task, tickled him all the more. So much so, he couldn’t stop the fit of chuckles that shook his shoulders.

  “Stop that this instant,” she demanded, even as her lips twitched into a smile.

  “You know you’ll never last if you insist on finishing every dish set before you,” he told her sagely. “We’ve several courses remaining that are exceedingly good, including a decadent cheesecake I’m confident you won’t find fault with.”

  “I do love a good cheesecake,” she agreed with a quiet giggle. “As long as there isn’t too much flour.”

  “I assure you, madam, it shall be perfect or we’ll demand satisfaction.” He feasted on the warmth that returned to her sparkling eyes.

  But when Westerly asked, “Where does your family reside in Boston, Miss Bailey?” she dropped her attention back to her plate.

  He’d heard enough from that egocentric peacock. Christopher cut in, “I think we’ve discussed Boston long enough. Let’s talk of something else.”

  Westerly scowled. Christopher didn’t care. He considered it all worthwhile when Miss Bailey’s shoulders relaxed and she cast him a look of gratitude.

  “Did everyone have a pleasant time at the Vanderbilt ball last night?” Kimberly asked. “I wish I could have gone. Their estate looks lovely from the outside.”

  “Most enjoyable,” Christopher said, determined to keep better control of the table from this point forward. “I particularly liked what the library had to offer.” He drank in Miss Bailey’s shy gaze, and whether he should or not, he remembered fondly a playful maid and stolen kisses.

  Chapter Five

  AS MR. WESTERLY PREDICTED, the show had begun by the time they took their lofty balcony seats at the side of the large stage. Rebecca was more confused than ever. After their miserable dinner, she couldn’t imagine why Mr. Westerly had invited her. It was almost as if his sole purpose had been to make her look foolish in front of Mr. Black and his cousin. When he wasn’t insulting her in some way, he’d hung on Miss Ive’s every word as if she was the most enchanting creature on earth. Frankly, she was stunned he hadn’t found some excuse to sit next to the woman during the performance.

  Their ride that afternoon had been no better. She’d tried to be playful and flirtatious with Mr. Westerly, she truly had, but he would have none of it. Between stopping to speak with every person who’d graced the park and his incessant talk of his grand lineage, she’d barely gotten a word in.

  In contrast, Mr. Black had been a complete gentleman, possibly because he felt sorry for her predicament. All through dinner, she’d waited to make the final mistake that would give her secret away. She’d clearly underestimated the knowledge required to blend in with this sort. Yet through it all, Christopher Black, the very man she had pledged to ignore, had attended to her every need despite her many blunders.

  She glanced over her right shoulder. Mr. Black’s eyes focused squarely on her, and a flutter of excitement leapt into her stomach. Inhaling a shaky breath, she pushed away the unsettling feeling. She scanned the large auditorium, its plaster walls painted in rich metallic hues and studded with paste jewels. The sea of patrons below roared with laughter as the actors yodeled farm animal sounds on the brightly-lit stage. If only she’d retained more of her childhood French lessons. She struggled to follow, catching snippets of what was said—something about sheep and turkeys?

  Rebecca relaxed back into her seat, her mind still muddled with thoughts of Christopher Black—his warm, hazel eyes and smooth, supple lips. Demanding lips that made her insides ache and tremble… A hand touched her shoulder, and she nearly jumped from her chair.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” Mr. Black whispered. “May I?” he asked with a sweep of his hand toward the stage.

  Despite her lack of interest in the sill
y play, she nodded, oddly comforted by the low, rumble of his voice.

  “Rocco is a humble farmer who comes upon some bad luck. His brother takes pity on him and sends him the lovely Bettina. It’s said whoever possesses her will have good fortune, provided she remains a virgin.”

  She stared blankly at the stage. Her senses fixated on the seductive sound so close to her ear as a curious tingling sensation rippled down her spine. The room became stuffy, and she pulled a fan from her reticule to wave beneath her face.

  “A superstitious prince finds out about the girl. Wanting her for himself, he kidnaps her and locks her away in his castle, but alas she has fallen desperately in love with the farmer’s shepherd, Pippo. Now we wait to see if she’s forced to marry the dastardly prince or if she’ll be rescued by her love.”

  By the end of his story, her fanning had sped so fast, her wrist grew tired. She snapped the fan shut and smoothed her hands over the goose bumps trailing down her arms. “Of course, that’s what I understood as well.”

  Mr. Black reclined back into his seat, and she was sorely tempted to turn around, to say what, she wasn’t sure.

  As the outlandish operetta continued, she stopped trying to decipher the dialogue, Mr. Black’s presence behind her making the task impossible. Laughter rang around her. She looked about at the well-dressed audience engrossed in the performance and spotted a gentleman with gray sideburns and receding hair. His face held a remarkable resemblance to her father’s. At least to the man he used to be. His life in shambles, her father had grown weaker and thinner than the gentleman she saw in the crowd. They had so little time left, just three short days before those men would return to demand their payment, and if her father didn’t have it…

  The fringed velvet curtain fell into place, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Mr. Westerly offered his arm at the intermission break, and together they descended the main staircase to the lobby, followed by Mr. Black and Miss Ives. A stilted silence fell on the small group when they reached the main floor. Mr. Westerly scanned the room, apparently eager to be away. “I wonder if they’ve found out what happened to Nathan Gebhardt yet. I heard the case has been reopened.”

  Mr. Black’s jaw tensed, and he stared hard at Mr. Westerly.

  “Nathan Gebhardt?” Miss Ives asked.

  “A good friend of mine, who was mysteriously killed last year. It seems he fell down a flight of steps after he’d been poisoned,” Mr. Westerly explained somewhat matter-of-factly.

  From his dispassionate tone, Rebecca wondered precisely how much he cared for his good friend. Possibly his standards were low in that regard, and he considered everyone he met a good friend.

  “I don’t think his case was ever officially closed,” Mr. Black provided, his tone casual and curious despite his intense gaze.

  Mr. Westerly shrugged. “Everyone has heard rumors that new evidence has shed more light on the case. My favorite involves an unknown, beautiful but deadly assassin.”

  “Poor man,” Miss Ives murmured. “Did you know him, Miss Bailey?”

  “Only a little.” She glanced at Mr. Black, recalling a similar question he’d posed at the ball. He stared back, as if waiting. Rebecca vaguely remembered Mr. Gebhardt, the young private attorney who had come to the Endicotts’ house from time to time on business. “He seemed quite nice.” He’d always had time for a pleasant word no matter who he spoke to, be it maid or butler.

  Mr. Westerly waved to a gentleman in the corner, concluding, “He was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed.” Mr. Westerly’s grief lasted until his next breath. “Would anyone like to meet Senator Wagstaff? I bumped into him last night, and I see he’s standing just over there.”

  “That would be lovely,” Miss Ives agreed.

  The two of them strolled toward a portly gentleman across the lobby. “It’s Daniel Boone himself. Good to see you again, Senator,” Mr. Westerly called out to him.

  Mr. Black’s frown didn’t disappear once Mr. Westerly walked away. It remained firmly in place, but he said nothing. A trace of doubt flickered in his gaze.

  She had an awful feeling she didn’t want to know what bothered him. Still, she debated asking about it when Mrs. Breckenridge, the elderly woman she’d met at the Vanderbilt ball, shuffled toward them. Dressed in a fashionable black gown, she approached, leaning heavily on a silver cane. “Mr. Black, how are your dear parents? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

  Mr. Black’s welcoming smile brightened the room, and made Rebecca’s pulse beat a little faster. “They’re well, thank you.”

  He helped Mrs. Breckenridge cross to a row of plush chairs near the wall. Once settled in place, she continued, “I believe the last time I saw your mother and father they were preparing for your sister’s wedding.”

  “That was some time ago. Joanna will give birth to their first child this fall.”

  The affection in Christopher’s eyes dazzled. His parents and siblings meant a lot to him, of that much, she was sure. She could only imagine what it felt like to have family who cared. She’d been without her own for too long.

  “This will be their fourth grandchild?” Mrs. Breckenridge asked, adjusting to a more comfortable position in her seat.

  “With Evelyn’s brood of three it will be, although you wouldn’t guess that was the case,” he added with mock annoyance. “While they’re excited about another grandchild to spoil, they are impatient for more.”

  Mrs. Breckenridge chuckled. “I take it you’ve been getting some pressure to provide these additional children?”

  “The topic does surface in any conversation I have with them these days.”

  Rebecca had never thought of Mr. Black as an uncle, much less a father. She studied his chiseled profile and broad, capable shoulders, and something soft inside her melted into a puddle. He’d make a great father, protective and strong.

  Mrs. Breckenridge turned to her with a sly wink and a mischievous grin. “Any prospective mothers?”

  Rebecca’s cheeks burned as Mr. Black regarded her thoughtfully before returning a good-natured smile. “Perhaps.”

  Mrs. Breckenridge lifted a pair of spectacles dangling from a jeweled chain. “Now who do you have with you this evening?”

  “Pardon me for neglecting my duties,” he said. “May I introduce Miss Rebecca Bailey? Miss Bailey, this is Mrs. Amelia Breckenridge.”

  Rebecca curtsied to the woman. “So nice to see you again. We met briefly last evening.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember you. Bailey…Bailey,” she repeated. “I recall some time ago a Richard and Frances Bailey. Are you related in some way?”

  Rebecca froze. She would never have expected anyone to remember her parents. What should she do? If she acknowledged them, would Mrs. Breckenridge also know of her father’s tragic decline? Even so, she loved them so much, to deny knowing them seemed wrong. “Yes, I’m their daughter,” she admitted, praying nothing more would come of it.

  Mrs. Breckenridge smiled kindly. “Your mother was quite lovely, a descendent of the Waterfords of England, I believe.”

  With a weak smile she agreed, “That’s correct.”

  “Hmm, don’t see them much anymore. Whatever happened to…?”

  Her heart thundered in her chest, and her thoughts whirled. In her head, she tested potential responses to the dreaded question when a booming voice announced the end of intermission. That bit of incredible luck ended all conversation as audience members began to migrate back toward the auditorium.

  “May I assist you to your seat, Mrs. Breckenridge?” Mr. Black offered, already helping the woman to rise from the chair.

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “Miss Bailey?” he asked, proposing she join them.

  “I can make my way back.”

  He hesitated a moment, as if debating what to do, then nodded his agreement.

  She joined the crowd as they ascended the stairs. When she reached the door to their balcony, she had no wish to go back inside where
thoughts of her father haunted her and Mr. Black’s nearness disturbed her. Exhausted, she wished this evening would come to an end.

  No destination in mind, she climbed higher until she reached the top of the carpeted stairs leading to the deserted rooftop gardens. Colored lights illuminated lush greenery. Wandering to a quiet corner, she brushed her fingertips over smooth, glossy leaves. Her gaze skimmed over the spectacular view of the city below.

  Rebecca sank down onto a low bench with a groan. Tonight had been a disappointing mess. She’d had difficulty answering questions no matter how simple, and everyone had been filled with curiosity. She’d had no idea who the blasted dressmaker was, even though it appeared to be common knowledge to everyone else. Between shooting her utensils through the air and accusing Mr. Black of marrying his cousin—his cousin!—she’d made an utter fool of herself.

  Her shoulders slumped. Spending any more time with Mr. Westerly would be torture, and she had no doubt he felt the same. Her insides squeezed tight. Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Mr. Black stepped through the doorway into the gardens, and she straightened in her seat, her body tingling with anticipation. She should have known he would search for her when he found her empty seat. He looked exceedingly handsome, so strong and powerful. How she ached for the safety and comfort she’d gone without for so long. She needed someone she could rely on to care for her for a change.

  He scanned the gardens until his piercing eyes found her. With swift strides he crossed the space between them. “You shouldn’t be up here alone.”

  Too tired to argue anymore, she stood, resigned to rejoin Miss Ives and Mr. Westerly in the theater. She turned to leave, but Mr. Black stopped her with a firm grip on her bare arm. His simple touch sent an electric current sizzling through her limbs, and her eyes darted to his. From the heat in his gaze, she could tell he felt it too. His hand rose and swept a stray curl from her face. “You still seem familiar to me.”

  The light brush of his fingers over her skin tickled and teased even as his words put her nerves on edge. She could only hope he never remembered when they first met. She looked down toward her feet, hidden by a dress she couldn’t afford. If Mary hadn’t gone to her aunt, a seamstress, and begged off a few gowns rejected by customers, she wouldn’t be wearing this at all.